I was really hoping something interesting and exciting would happen today, but unless you count that I finally managed to clean off the majority of the junk piled up on the island in my kitchen, we’re fresh out of interesting around here.
Our day started a little late because I let Caroline sleep in a little late. I figure no one ever claims the reason they didn’t get into Harvard was because they missed the first hour of second grade. If she doesn’t get into Harvard it will be for reasons directly related to her gene pool, specifically having a mother who graduated from college while on scholastic probation.
(Also, I just told P that I thought Beirut was in Nicaragua.)
(It’s not.)
(It’s in Lebanon.)
(Who says Chuck Norris movies from 1985 aren’t educational?)
(Besides everyone?)
After I dropped her off at school I came home, started some laundry, and attempted to straighten up the house from the wreckage of the weekend. There were sandals and clothes and bows everywhere, thanks to Caroline’s belief that every new activity requires a new outfit. I made a grocery list and cleaned off the island. I believe I’ve already mentioned that.
As for the rest of my day, I went to lunch with Bops and watched The Judds’ new reality show. Bops didn’t watch it with me. I just wanted to be clear about that because he doesn’t believe in reality television unless it involves people in foreign countries trying to buy a house. And, by the way, The Judds’ show is fascinating. It really confirmed for me that Caroline and I should never form a band and spend her teen years on a tour bus together. And that will probably work out seeing as how the only time I’ve ever been offered any money for singing was in the form of “How much money will it take for you to stop?” Because P thinks he is hilarious.
Once I picked up Caroline from school we went directly to HEB to forage for food. And that’s when I began to notice all the talking. I mean, she always talks. She’s a talker. She uses a lot of words. She doesn’t believe in using eight words if she can use sixty-four instead. I have no idea where she gets it.
Our entire trip through HEB was a running commentary about various vegetable selections and why she likes raspberries better than blackberries and did I know that her friend Kai made a weird face at her today at recess and she doesn’t know why he made that face but she didn’t like it and OH! can we get this kind of peanut butter and she didn’t eat her grilled cheese sandwich for lunch because she wasn’t a fan of cheese today and sometimes she thinks her favorite color might be blue but she still really likes pink and sometimes purple.
And then we got home and it was the same thing. All the way through the afternoon and into dinner time. I was so glad to see P walk through the door at the end of the day so he could bear some of the conversational burden. I was out of answers. I was all talked out.
I made stir fry for dinner, in between answering questions about why peppers come in so many different colors and did I remember she didn’t like mushrooms, and then we all sat down at the table to eat together. Needless to say, the conversation was flowing.
Finally, we read bedtime stories and I tucked her into bed. That brings us to the portion of the night where P and I like to place bets on how long before she gets back up and what her excuse will be. Last night, I bet that it would be ten minutes and she’d need to blow her nose or take allergy medicine. P bet that it would be fifteen minutes and her pajamas would be too hot.
We were both wrong.
She walked out of the bedroom about thirty minutes later and said, “I was just about to drift off to sleep when I couldn’t help but notice how cold the sheets are. Will you help me find a pair of socks?”
I didn’t see the sock request coming. Nor did I realize it would be phrased like she’s seven going on sixty-two.
As I got up off the couch to help her find her fuzzy socks, P started to say something and then stopped himself. She’d walked ahead of me into her room so I turned to him and asked, “What were you going to say?”
He said, “I was going to suggest that she ask the monster that lives under her bed to rub her feet to keep them warm.”
While I was so grateful he knew enough to not actually say it, I fell in love with him all over again for thinking of it. Mainly because it reminded me of one of my favorite Far Side cartoons ever.
Nobody makes cartoons like Gary Larson anymore.
And that was our day.
Did I mention I cleaned off my kitchen island? Because I did. I totally did.